


doux et vingt

by decoying



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blow Jobs, Friends With Benefits, M/M, very vague early shb spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decoying/pseuds/decoying
Summary: In the two summers since they’ve been on the First, it’s easy to lose track of how many times Thancred's come here. And always after, this feeling comes again to scrape him raw.
Relationships: Urianger Augurelt/Thancred Waters
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	doux et vingt

**Author's Note:**

> "what's to come is still unsure:  
> in delay there lies no plenty;  
> then come kiss me, _sweet and twenty_  
>  youth's a stuff will not endure."  
> \- twelfth night
> 
> i'm about halfway through shadowbringers at the moment. i feel literally everything imaginable

Like this, Urianger still comes up to nearly his chest. 

His back is curved like a cat’s spine the way he’s stooped, that perfect posture traded for a better angle while he’s on his knees. And the angle really _is_ a good one. Thancred has to breathe steady lungfuls out his nose not to pant. He has to grip the end of a dusty bookshelf to keep himself upright. And Urianger, he _has_ to keep doing that with his tongue.

And like this, when Thancred looks down, all he can see is his eyelids. They’re the color of drooping petals and probably as soft, under them hiding a treasure trove of glinting gold. 

...He’d have used that line once upon a time. His silver tongue’s a little tarnished these days, but it wouldn’t matter anyway. Urianger always saw right through it.

Around his cock, he hums some nebulous approval like he heard all that. A hand goes to his mouth just in case. There’s no place for waxing romantic. Not here.

Not in the dusty corner of some stuffy back room in his glorified library, where hardly any light can reach. Like this, it’s the darkest place in all Il Mehg; probably all of Norvrandt, them both pretending it’s any secret what they do. Thancred would like to believe it is. Now, he can’t hope to remember how it started. It was some time back in Eorzea, when they were two grieving men searching for something they wouldn’t have to name. They both had a habit of overthinking; they both found a way to forget. 

He never thought Urianger the type. They both knew Thancred was. What they didn’t know is that he would keep coming back, or that he would first run here every time he—

“ _Ah._ Ah, twelve—” A ragged breath is punched straight from his gut. His hand falls to thread in Urianger’s hair, because the tip just touched the back of his throat. Hells, what was he thinking about again? Thancred’s mind swims. It does not have his generous lung capacity. 

Neither does Urianger, made more obvious when Thancred’s hips cant forward on their own, and there’s a wet, choking sound as he pulls off in one swift motion. It feels much the same as pushing in, and his whole body chases it, him humping open air like a desperate fool.

Maybe that’s what he is. When he opens his mouth again, it’s almost to say _please_. His teeth clack together against his own stupidity.

Urianger wipes his mouth delicately, pumping what he left with long, dextrous fingers. Driving him half fucking mad, is what he’s doing.

“Thancred.” 

Urianger’s voice is low and rough with use, and a startling bolt of heat goes through him, from his belly down his legs.

“Keep still,” he rasps, but the chastising is firm, “lest thy venture to lose more than ought be gained.”

Thancred growls, impatient, a steady flush tiding to his ears with every upstroke.

“Might you speak _plain_ for once?”

“‘Tis not in mine nature,” he says. And a strange fondness wells up, then, when he adds: “This you well know.”

Thancred has little time to dwell on the strange twist behind his ribs, because there’s a tongue on his dick again—though, he doesn’t quite dive back in. More like, he dips in a single toe, testing for temperature and current and _self-control_. Thancred gets teeth around his thumb to keep it all steady.

But he’s not drawing it out, anymore. They both know they don’t have the time. Alphinaud will be back with—they’ll both be back soon. They’re meant to be discussing strategy. The Exarch and the Calamity and the Warrior of Darkness, damn them all. They’re supposed to be— _shit._

His head moves in quick, meaningful bobs, stroking what his mouth can’t reach. It’s kindling heat in Thancred’s belly, a growing smolder that’s fast rising to flame. Urianger snakes a hand around himself, too; his cock peeks out from under his bunched up skirts, hard and flushed.

He works them both in earnest. Doing all the work, actually, while Thancred just stands there, head thrown back, panting breath enough to fill up the room. Not for the first time, he thinks of all he owes this man for how little he gives back. But smoke’s clouding up his mind now, the pleasant haze he’s here for, as the embers rise and threaten to burst and then finally, blissfully, they do, and he’s pulling out and taking himself frantically in hand to spill on the floor with a strangled gasp.

Below him, Urianger’s eyes are shut tight, spit still slick around his mouth as he jerks himself fast and frantic until he heaves a breath and follows, in the same spot of mess on the dark-stained wood.

Like this, slumped against the wall, Thancred’s tingling all over.

For long minutes, they come down. Steadying their breaths and clothes. They don’t look at each other. They don’t speak.

If there’s one thing Urianger has always had, it’s decorum. Thancred’s ever thankful for it.

His head and skin buzz, it ebbing quickly away from a pleasant afterglow and morphing into something else. Nothing like the sweet hum of magic. It’s closer to the sick drain of corrupt aether. Now that the sweat’s cooling on his skin, all he feels is empty.

In the two summers since they’ve been on the First, it’s easy to lose track of how many times he’s come here. And always after, the feeling comes again to scrape him raw. 

Urianger catches his eye, the dark of the room casting deep shadows on the sharpness of his face, throwing his expression into unreadability. Thancred clears his throat.

“We should…”

A minute nod. “Master Alphinaud should arrive expeditiously.” The gruffness isn’t gone from his voice. It’s broaching, then, when he starts: “Mayhap it best if we—”

“Get back to playing at fatherhood, eh?” Thancred says, trying for a jest, sounding hollow enough to echo.

Urianger looks at him for another long moment. He considers Thancred the way he’d read an ancient tome, one that’s alarmingly cryptic and frustratingly inscrutable. Thancred’s prickling hot and cold all over like this, feeling about six ilms tall where his back’s still pressed into the dim corner of the back room.

Urianger’s eyes swim with something like regret. He looks away at last, ending some long-lain siege on Thancred’s conscience. 

“Then let us away,” he says, toneless, and turns his back.

For once Thancred wishes for a long-winded speech. Anything but the unforgiving, abyssal expanse of his own thoughts. Urianger disappears into the harsh light of the study. Thancred is left alone, swallowed in shadow.

**Author's Note:**

> personally i think the best way to write urianger is to keep his mouth busy but sorry for making thancred sadder. he doesn't deserve this


End file.
